


Lionsguard

by FireEye



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 11:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireEye/pseuds/FireEye
Summary: When the Prince is born, Ovelia is swept aside.  Right into the arms of a knight who might be a bit...traditional, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have a heart.  The story of how Princess Ovelia and Agrias Oaks came to Orbonne.





	Lionsguard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lassarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/gifts).



Ovelia is thirteen.

She has been stripped of her status, her royal servants, and what little sense of family she had.  Her fate, that had been so certain, hangs suspended in doubt.  As with the fate of all, hers rests within the hands of God.

The chapel is quiet.  It is between the hours of prayer, and she stands beside a man of the cloth who runs his fingers through his river of a beard.  Ovelia should be thinking of the future, but she can only wonder at the wrinkles that cut across the man’s wizened face beneath his eyes.  Does he enjoy this life, or was he, too, simply given to a life he didn’t choose?

The creaking of the chapel doors causes Ovelia to straighten, and her stare is drawn to the knight who strides confidently down the aisle towards them.  Her bearing is most regal, her every step measured, her resolve unwavering.

At her approach, the old cleric bows his head and stands aside, muttering an invocation to St. Ajora.

The woman drops to one knee at Ovelia’s feet.  When bidden, she stands, near hand hooked unceremoniously around the hilt of the sword sheathed at her hip, and her gaze is courteously distant.  She doesn’t grovel her respect.  She doesn’t speak above her station.  She doesn’t say what an honor it is, to serve the Royal House.

She doesn’t, in fact, say anything at all.

Ovelia has had her share of servants in her lifetime.  This one, she thinks, won’t be any different.

Ovelia is thirteen, and she never wanted to be Queen anyway.

~*~

Two moons and a fortnight since Agrias has come into her service, and Ovelia has already tired of it.

With few exceptions throughout the day, she is always at Ovelia’s side.  But despite her constant presence she is little more than Ovelia’s shadow.  She doesn’t presume or ever attempt to preempt the princess’s needs, like some servants would, nor does she slack in her duty.  She is always there, where Ovelia knows she will be, when she is needed.

Ovelia isn’t sure when she ever finds time to sleep.

At night, when Ovelia is cloistered within her chambers, Agrias stands guard outside the door.

One such night, when she can’t take it anymore, Ovelia cracks open the door and peers at her.  Agrias’ meets her stare, expression schooled.

“Highness?”

The knight stands, in wait of a task.  Pressing her lips together thinly, the princess opens the door wider.

“You don’t have to stand outside all night, you know.”

For all that her expression scarcely changed, it was clear that Agrias _didn’t_ know.

“What I mean is, you can come inside the room.”

Agrias casts her gaze down the dark hallway, as though monsters of the night may lie in wait for such a God-given opportunity, should she abandon her post.

They live in a castle rectory, Ovelia can’t help but think.  The only monsters within these walls are the demons living in musty old books, and are only given life briefly by the voice that reads them off the page.

Ovelia stands in the door several quiet moments longer, until Agrias sees fit to heed her suggestion.  Once she has stepped through the door, Ovelia closes it behind her.

It is not a chamber fit for a royal princess.  Neither is it suited for a member of the clergy.  It’s cozier than that, with a bed and a fireplace, a chest for spare changes of clothes and a desk for reading and writing letters.

It’s a simple room for a girl with no future at court, but who cannot simply be thrown away.

Sitting on the bed, Ovelia pulls a light shawl over her shoulders.  At an angle to the door, Agrias is standing as annoyingly still here as she did every night in the hall.

“You can sit down.  You don’t have to stand all of the time.”

Yes, she doesn’t _have to_ , but obviously she _shall_.

“Sit down, Agrias.”

Without ceremony, Agrias orients the cushioned chair beside the desk to a more proper angle and does as she is bid.  She sits as sternly as she stands, with either hand resting upon its respective thigh; the sword she carries scrapes the flagstones in its sheath.

Ovelia stares at her.

In the light of the hearth fire, she doesn’t look so imposing.

“Do you know any bedtime stories?”

Her fingers curl where they rest, and Agrias’ turns her head; she masks her confusion well.

“Highness?”

“Bedtime stories.  They tell them to children.  Do you know any?”

There is a heavy pause, and Ovelia isn’t sure, as Agrias’ mouth opens to voice some inner thought, if the mask will break.

“No, Highness.”

“Not even the Zodiac Brave story?”  Agrias averts her gaze, and Ovelia presses on.  “I thought everybody knew that story.”

“Even the brightest told fables of such dark times would not be fit for a bedtime story, Highness.  Remembrance of evil in the hours of night is to invite evil dreams.”

“Didn’t good win over evil, in the end?”

“At the cost of their lives, Highness.”

Ovelia sighs.

“It’s just a story.”

Sliding out of her slippers, she pulls herself up onto the bed and tugs the heavier blankets up over her.  Flexing her fingers, Agrias rises to her feet. 

“The library may contain a volume-...”

“You don’t...” Ovelia tells her, “...have to go look for it right now.”

“Highness.”

The only sound in the room is the fire crackling, then Agrias’ measured steps approaching the bed.  The blanket is pulled higher over Ovelia’s shoulder, before the knight makes a measured retreat to stand by the door.

“Agrias...”

“Highness?”

“Please sit down.”

~*~

Agrias is standing sternly outside the study when the decision is made.  Once the meeting is over, Ovelia sees no reason to keep it from her.

“We leave for Orbonne tomorrow.”

 _We_ because there is no alternative.  She cannot go alone, and her bodyguard is the only servant Ovelia is allowed, lest she manifest grand aspirations and ideas about her station.

“Highness.”

And, perhaps, because Agrias won’t simply abandon her charge to any other.  In the weeks and months since she swore herself to Ovelia’s service, her bearing if not her words have made it abundantly clear where her sense of duty lies.

 

They leave in the early morning ahead of the dawn, amid no fanfare.  The Duke has seen fit to allow her a carriage and guards for the journey itself, for there are more brigands in recent days than in the years during the war.  There is little to pack, and less worth stealing.

“I want Agrias to ride with me,” she says.

Both knights’ heads turn.  Even in the torchlight, Agrias is wearing that expression that says she disagrees, but it is the captain of the guard that speaks up.

“I think that would be highly-...”

“I want Agrias to ride with me,” Ovelia repeats, not to be agued with.

The man gives Agrias a look of sympathy.  Of how difficult it must be, dealing with royals and their whims.  It is a look which Agrias doesn’t return.

Climbing into the carriage, Agrias seats herself across from the princess with a heavy sigh.  The sheathed sword, she unbuckles and rests across her lap.

 

The days through Gallione pass uneventfully.

For several hours at a stretch, the soldiers think to trade stories amongst themselves.  Over time, the stories shift in tone from conquests of war to conquests more private, on fields of battle behind bedroom doors.

“It would do to remember that the princess has ears while you still have your tongue,” Agrias’ snaps, and the rabble outside the carriage falls silent.

Ovelia bites her lip, stifling the urge to laugh.  Whether at the guards, or Agrias’ sense of propriety, or both, she doesn’t know.  She keeps her head down, and falls to watching the passing trees.

 

They cross the border into Lesalia, and the atmosphere changes.  The air is thick and heavy, like a rainstorm waiting to break.

The guards fall silent.  The birds are silent.  The copse is silent.  Even the leaves on the trees are silent in the stifling air.

The captain has sent their scouts along the road to Orbonne ahead of them, but there is no reason to linger in wait in such a place.

Elbows propped on her knees, Ovelia rests her chin between her hands; it is a posture most unbecoming of royalty.  Agrias’ fingers tighten on the hilt of her sword, drawing it an inch from its scabbard, and her eyes open.

Ovelia follows her gaze to the guard outside the carriage window, who reaches forward to sooth the ruffled feathers of the chocobo he rides.

The first crossbow bolt strikes him between the shoulders.

The second, his fellow guard on the opposite side of the carriage.

Lightning strikes the carriage itself, called down from above.

Chaos erupts.

Agrias grabs for her arm, but, clutching her burden, Ovelia lunges from the safety of the carriage.  Only once on the ground, she doesn’t know where to _go_.  Above the clash of steel and the heavy _thwack_ of bolts hitting their targets, the smell of smoke is thick; the carriage is on fire and the chocobos that are yoked to it are trilling and stomping and at the edge of panic.  Tears stinging her eyes, hands shaking, Ovelia pulls on the leather straps that hold them in vain.

A hand grabs her shoulder and drags her away, and a sword slashes through the gloom of the battlefield, cutting the birds loose.  The pair flee together into the surrounding woods, trampling those unlucky enough to be in their path.  Agrias holds her close, casting her unflinching gaze about the chaos surrounding them.

A rider sits at a distance, observing the battle from above.  His clothes mark him as one of the bandits, and for a what seems like a very long moment, he and Agrias regard one another.

She has seen Agrias angry, Ovelia thinks.  At least, she has seen little annoyances, oft enough over perceived slights, easily smoothed over if Ovelia herself is willing to let them go.  Agrias has been in her service long enough now.

Ovelia realizes, as the woman’s mouth curls in a snarl, she has never seen Agrias angry.

Catching the reins of the bird that has lost its rider, Agrias pulls herself into the saddle, hauling Ovelia up in front of her after.  For a brief moment, above the din, Agrias meets the eye of the captain of the guard, still mounted; Ovelia sees his salute, before he turns away.

Before he turns away to die, she realizes, as Agrias spurs the chocobo forward, through the chaos.  The holy knight raises her own sword, channeling the divine to clear a path before them.  As if in retaliation, the air becomes chill, and they narrowly escape a whirlwind of stinging ice.  A jolt on the path as Agrias forces the bird up the hill sends the satchel from Ovelia’s grip, tumbling down the embankment towards the river.

“No!”

Shock stills her tongue.

The bandit from above charges down the path towards them; Agrias shoves Ovelia to one side, letting her hang precariously from the saddle; angling the chocobo out of the path of the man’s sword, she slashes at his back with her own as he passes behind them.  Struck from behind, he tumbles from his saddle and struggles to right himself.

Yanking Ovelia upright, Agrias wraps an arm around her.  An arrow whizzes past her ear, crunching through the man’s armor, and he slumps where he dangles from the stirrup, dragged behind as the bird dashes towards the perceived safety of the trees.

The scouts have returned, only to find a battle has been fought and lost without them.  Agrias doesn’t look back, and they turn their mounts to bring up the rearguard.  They’ve cut more than a fair distance before Ovelia finds her voice, and twists in the saddle to protest.

“Agrias!” Ovelia clutches at her arm, and Agrias looks down at her.  “Agrias, the Maiden’s Gem!”

Agrias blinks at her.

“The Maiden’s Gem... it fell towards the river... I... I dropped it...”

Comprehension slowly dawns, and Agrias looks away.  There’s a weariness in her shoulders, and all at once, it seems like such a petty, petty thing.

But the words have been spoken.

Agrias slows the chocobo, bringing it in line with the two behind her.  The scouts are looking to her, perplexed, but she merely hoists the princess from her saddle and thrusts her into the arms of the nearest rider, who drops her bow to accommodate.

“Stop for nothing,” she tells them, “These are no common bandits; the princess must reach the sanctuary at Orbonne.”

Agrias wheels her chocobo around between them, and at once there are only two.  Straining to see her as she’s carried out of reach, Ovelia tries to call her back, but the words don’t reach her.

The knight is already gone.

~*~

It is many hours before Orbonne rises on the crest above the hill.  Ovelia can’t track the time, but the sun has risen much higher in the sky and begun to fall again since the ambush.

The old man who waits to receive her openly stares as the royal young woman he is expecting is carried into his churchyard, fine clothing torn and marred and covered head to toe in the dust of the road.

The woman she rides with sets her down gently as she can before dismounting, along with her partner, and both scouts drop to their knees at her feet.

Stepping past them, Ovelia bows her head in reverence of the only power higher than the Ivalice throne.

The old man enfolds her in his arms.  The sleeves of his robes are heavy and warm around her, and smell thickly of incense.

“My poor child, you _have_ faced hardship to reach us, haven’t you?”

“I lost...” Fresh tears spill from her eyes, and she catches herself before she can recount what it is she has lost.  She can’t bring herself to leave the comfort of his arms.  “I lost it, Father.  The Maiden’s Gem, I lost...”

He shushes her gently, and murmurs an incantation.  Warmth and safety are layered upon her; it is a shroud that can’t be pierced by any sword.  The sense of loss is keen, but it is muffled all the same by the holy power of the spell.

“It is nothing of consequence,” his hands come to rest upon her shoulders as he releases her from his arms, and staring up at his kindly smile, Ovelia all at once feels the weight of her exhaustion, “Come, let us find you a bath and a warm meal.”

 

It’s long past nightfall when the chocobo arrives, and its rider slides out of the saddle with pained care.  The guards that have been posted since the Duke’s arrival see her to the monastery chapel.

The events of the day have preceded her, but the room falls silent on her heels.

Neither full of rage, nor fully complacent, Agrias expression is inscrutable.  The battle she has seen has made its mark across her face in the scrapes across her cheek and within the murky depths of her eyes.  Her armor is battered, but has seen her through; her sword is sheathed in its scabbard at her side.

Head held high, she strides stiffly down the aisle, and drops to her knee at Ovelia’s feet.

Every high born man is holding his breath.

Every priest is holding silent prayer.

Ovelia reaches out to touch Agrias’ shoulder.  The knight draws herself to her feet, and her gaze falls solely on Ovelia, who stares up at her in muted awe.

“Did you recover the stone?”

The harshness of the voice draws her back, and Ovelia lowers her eyes.

Agrias’ gaze turns to meet that of the Duke’s tactician.  Reaching beneath her tabard, she withdraws the satchel – muddied and bloodstained.  She bows her head to Ovelia and holds out to her the hardwon prize with reverence.  Ovelia holds it between her hands with uncertainty.

“Very well,” the Duke remarks.

Simon relieves her of the burden gently.  The formalities concluding, if somewhat informally, and Ovelia thinks it must be over.

“Of the bandits, Your Grace.”

Agrias worn, steady voice draws the attention of every man in the room.

“What of them?”  It is Dycedarg who finally speaks.  “You returned to us the stone; surely the men who were brazen enough to steal it have been laid to ruin?”

Resting her hand upon the hilt of her sword, Agrias stares past him, her gaze fixed at a point over Duke Larg’s shoulder.

“They were no mere bandits, Your Grace.”

The notion ripples through the assembly, causing unease.  The Duke looks to Dycedarg, who only shakes his head as Agrias squares toward him and stares him down.

“Think no more of this,” Dycedarg seeks to sooth her fears, and theirs.  “Should these villains persist, we will root them out, mark our words.”  Turning to Ovelia, he assures her, “These are troubled times, Highness, but none would dare breach the walls of Orbonne.”

“Yet, old friend, it is heartening to know that there is still loyalty to the throne,” the Duke smiles most graciously, “for all that those who hold it may at times forget their place.”

Agrias bows, and it is the single most sarcastic thing Ovelia has ever seen her do.

~*~

Slowly, over spring and into summer, Orbonne becomes her home.  The world outside its walls fades away, and her life becomes one of quiet peace and learning. 

Agrias needn’t be over her shoulder every hour – at Simon’s petition, the Duke has even seen fit to give two more knights into her service – but she is there and Ovelia knows where to find her when she’s needed.

Some days, in the garden sunlight, Ovelia watches Agrias sharpen her blade or hone her own edge with her fellow warriors.  Others, having fallen asleep under the summer’s moon, Ovelia wakes to being carried to her bed.  A week will pass with scarcely a word, but Agrias’ dedication never wavers.

Occasionally, between lessons and sermons, exploring the library for old legends and forming tentative friendships that aren’t meant to last, Ovelia will find her way to Agrias and simply sit beside her.

If Agrias thinks it odd, she never says as much.  In Ovelia’s life, she has been the only one for whom the princess’ wishes transcend the laws of Heaven.

**Author's Note:**

> Man, What Even Is The Final Fantasy Tactics Timeline?
> 
> But yeah: some Ovelia & Agrias princess & knight loyalty goodness for you. <3


End file.
